


Tongue Tied

by PastelBlueDahlia



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Office, Falling In Love, M/M, Office Blow Jobs, Office Party, Rope Bondage, Rope Burn - YOI Zine, Rope Harness Worn Under Clothes, Sexual Content, Shibari, Smut, Yuri on ice zin, semi-public blowjobs
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-10-08
Updated: 2020-02-20
Packaged: 2020-11-27 17:57:39
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 3
Words: 6,581
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/20952539
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/PastelBlueDahlia/pseuds/PastelBlueDahlia
Summary: “You’re attractive,” Viktor says, matter of factly. Yuuri opens his mouth and closes it again, heat rising up his neck. He feels like the human equivalent of a ds card that has stopped working. Someone needs to take the card out of his brain and blow on it — yep, it seems like a good idea if Viktor would blow him—- - -The Office au where they fall in love and do everything you shouldn't do in an office





	1. Chapter 1

The building stands tall and sleek. It‘s like the architect gave the words “I‘m better than you and we both know it” form in steel and concrete and glass. Yuuri‘s sure he‘ll get chased out as soon as he enters. All these suited men and high-heeled ladies can probably smell his anxiety.

The acceptance letter was a fluke. They‘ve already picked some millionaire’s son, and Yuuri’s only here to give that son a “challenge.” He thinks of the acceptance letter, of the way _ along with other applicants _was bold and underlined and how this itself was already a rejection.

Yuuri takes a deep breath. He hurries to the elevators, tolerates the daunting silence, and hopes no one will ask him if he’s lost. The elevator empties. He walks out and wants to walk right back, but an arm loops around his. His eyes wander up a baby pink sweater and land on a smile that’s way too bright “Let me guess,” the guy says, “You’re here for the job interview.”

He introduces himself as Chris while leading Yuuri through the glass doors as soon as he manages to nod. Chris explains things Yuuri didn’t ask about instead of telling him how he can pull of Harry Potter glasses.

Chris is in the middle of a sentence as he bangs his fist against a door several times. The sign next to it reads “Storage Room.”

The door swings open.

Bright hair and a bright button down, holding a cigarette in one hand and his other arm crossed over his chest. Smoke and dust sink slowly to the floor, made golden from light like the insides of amber. The warmth of it collides with blue and white, the unhappy corner of a mouth. Animosity so blatant Yuuri’s head empties out, too stunned to even think. But his anxiety doesn't need thought to work — it jump starts like an old car, crashing into him all at once.

His anxiety ties a knot into his throat. No one has alienated him from his own body like this, and it's a whole new kind of terrible.

They’re talking about something and Yuuri’s body gets introduced to Viktor Nikiforov. He slowly finds his way back to his body, the way you put your foot carefully into a lake to test the temperature.

If Yuuri’s body is a lake, then Nikiforov’s body is the ocean. They’re vaguely similar — two hands, two legs, one head; yet both of them seem to understand instinctively that they’re on different levels. Yuuri takes up too much space, wants to make room as Nikiforov leans in, his cold fingertips on Yuuri’s skin as they shake hands. He sends a message in a language everyone speaks, like all dangerous things do.

And then Yuuri recognizes the glint in his eyes and teeth. Nikiforov’s mask is a familiar face. Yuuri puts reassuring pressure into his handshake and smiles. Competing with Nikiforov won’t be easy.

Chris leads them to an office full of minimalistic furniture without even a hint of personality.

Nikiforov sits down at the desk like it’s the most natural thing in the world. On his desk lies Yuuri’s application file. Nikiforov clicks a golden pen and smiles.

_ Oh god, no. _

“Please, Mr. Katsuki,” he says, motioning to the chair next to Yuuri, “Your interview starts now.”

Yuuri releases a strangled “_ Fuck _ ,” which he _ thinks _ was inaudible but from the way Chris chirps, “That’s 5 dollars in the swear jar,” it apparently wasn’t as quiet as he thought.

○ ◊ ○

After the words, “You’re hired,” leave Nikiforov’s mouth, Yuuri moves through the hours like he’s wading through water, but he tries to settle into something that at least _ resembles _ a routine.

Everyday he goes around and asks his coworkers if they need help with anything. They don’t. But when the microwave explodes because some Czech guy left a spoon in his bowl, Yuuri is the only one who knows where the fire extinguisher is. That unfortunate incident seems to call Yuuri’s existence into everyone’s mind. Suddenly, everyone gives him tasks.

It's not real journalism. With increasing frequency, it’s giving his coworkers back rubs. He pretends that he doesn't understand the reference when they say _ Yuuri can you do my neck, my back— _

Yuuri swears he can feel Nikiforov’s eyes on him in their weekly meetings.

He has that quiet, unsettling intensity about him that seems to irradiate everyone. It keeps everyone at the edge of their seats and wondering if he’s going to nod in appreciation or if he’ll tilt his head and touch his lips with one finger like he’s trying to figure out if whatever he’s been presented with is a joke.

Nikiforov’s coldness seemed like a given, something Yuuri already encountered multiple times when Nikiforov strolled by his office without a word. But soon he noticed that this coldness seems to exist exclusively in meetings and is mostly fueled by his habit to stare and his surprising forgetfulness. 

After a week, Nikiforov’s hand lingers on Yuuri’s door frame, and he says, “Good Morning Yuu_ rrr _i.”

Just like that, they’re on a first name basis. But it takes a week for Yuuri to stop thinking about the way he rolls the r’s in his name, and another week for Yuuri to stop blushing when he says “Viktor.”

Now, Viktor clicks his tongue and crosses his arms over his chest at the mugs collecting in Yuuri’s office, but he does it so playfully that Yuuri’s ears burn when he does the dishes. He falls into daydreams where Viktor treats him a little differently, where he might even be _ flirting _with Yuuri.

But he sees how Viktor doesn't even flinch when Chris' hands wrap around his waist, or how Viktor talks to Mila and Georgi in Russian, his features relaxed. Sometimes it feels like there’s more than a wall separating him from Viktor.

○ ◊ ○

Yuuri had always thought his nights of red bull and coffee were over after college. Turns out, adult life isn't really that different. Tension rises as the deadline for the next issue draws nearer, and not even Viktor seems unaffected by it. 

He pauses before he knocks on Viktor’s door frame. It’s refreshing to see Viktor stressed and human. The office is mostly empty, and Yuuri can’t help but feel like it’s a secret that Viktor can be unmade like this, slumped over his desk and pinching the bridge of his nose.

Yuuri wants to touch the vulnerable straight line where Viktor’s hair parts_ so badly. _

Yuuri knocks and Viktor looks up. He’s tired, less magnetic, like he’s losing his magic with every sigh.

“Yuuri,” he says so softly it's unfair, “Are you busy right now?”

“Uh, no,” Someone needs to drop kick him out the window _ right now. _

“Chris will write the article about capsule wardrobes,” he says, and Yuuri nods before he remembers their last meeting.

“But Chris was supposed to write that article about, um_ — _”

“Shibari,” Viktor ends his sentence and Yuuri feels his ears burn, “It’s obviously a topic Chris knows a lot about, so why not let someone else into the spotlight? Sometimes we need to do the things people don’t expect. That’s why they’re reading_ this _ magazine, that’s why they keep coming back for more.”

Yuuri has a _ horrible _feeling. “Well, no one can match Chris' eros,” he says jokingly, but Viktor's eyes light up.

“Except you.”

“What?” he asks, voice too loud.

Viktor‘s eyebrows scrunch up and he narrows his eyes, in a way that reminds Yuuri of his dad before he got glasses. It doesn’t seem like Viktor needs advice on his vision though. At least not _ now. _

“You’re attractive,” Viktor says, matter of factly. Yuuri opens his mouth and closes it again, heat rising up his neck. He feels like the human equivalent of a ds card that has stopped working. Someone needs to take the card out of his brain and blow on it — yep, it seems like a good idea if Viktor would blow him—

“You haven’t said anything in like, two minutes, and I’m starting to freak out.”

“Y—you’re— you’re not freaking out, that’s my job!” he says, exasperated.

“Nooo,” Viktor drawls, “_ your _ job is to write words, which is exactly what I’m asking of you right now,” he flutters with his lashes all cutesy, which is _ so _ out of character Yuuri gets whiplash.

“You_ do _ know that being attractive doesn’t make me a talented journalist, right?”

“So you agree,” Viktor says and Yuuri frowns. “You think you’re attractive.”

Yuuri is about to do something really stupid like groan and grab Viktor’s face and—

“I know it’s hard to write about something you’re unfamiliar with, but that’s what our job is about. You can write anonymously. We’ll make the whole thing a mystery. The masses are _ always _ thirsty for mysteries.”

Yuuri groans, grabs his upper arms, and tries not to think too much as he replies, “If we end up regretting this, I’ll tell you I told you so.”

Viktor grins, honest to god _ grins _, and Yuuri is scared of how much he likes it.

“Sounds like a sex tape,” he says and Yuuri boxes his upper arm and thinks about it for way too long afterwards.

○ ◊ ○

The article Yuuri ended up writing is called “A Virgin’s View on Shibari.” He wrote like no one would ever read it, and tearing himself open like that had left him completely exhausted.

Nothing could have prepared him for what would follow: standing on top of a desk, Viktor‘s hand snug in the curve of his waist. Viktor proudly tells everyone about the positive reviews Yuuri’s article received, his compliments over the top silly. His ears are ringing from the applause.

“Drink up,” Viktor beams, tilting his champagne flute to Yuuri’s mouth for the fourth or fifth time. Yuuri can’t protest, or rather, doesn’t want to because Viktor’s warmth seeps through Yuuri’s clothes and he feels like he actually deserves the praise.

“Viktor, I’m drunk,” he says and Viktor‘s eyebrows shoot up his forehead. Yuuri can see Viktor’s brain extracting the information of his words. “Can you help me get down?”

“Of course, yeah,” he says. Viktor almost stumbles off the desk as he sits down and slides over the edge until his heels touch the floor. He holds his arms out, a lazy smile on his face as he sways a little. Yuuri laughs, his hands on Viktor‘s firm shoulders.

Viktor‘s face derails a little — simmers to something hot — his feverish hands on Yuuri’s ankle, going up his calves, all the way to the outer muscle of his thigh — the touch worshiping and slow, like he doesn’t want to wrinkle his clothes. Below his navel, Yuuri feels a hot twinge.

Viktor‘s hands settle on his waist as Yuuri jumps off the desk.

His hands don't move away. He can feel Viktor moving his thumbs in circles, and he feels that painful twinge again, and _ god _, he hopes Viktor can feel it too.

“Yuuri!” Phichit makes his way through his coworkers, “Sorry I’m late, Chris told me all about Viktor’s speech,” he says. Chris’s face pops up next to him and hooks his chin over Phichit’s shoulder like it’s the most natural thing in the world. 

It’s only then that Yuuri notices that Viktor‘s hands aren’t on him anymore.

Viktor talks with another group, smiles. Viktor controls his drunkenness so well it’s concerning, the way he bottles up all the touchiness and swaying and feverish heat, nice and neat, and puts a cork on it, makes the bubbles disappear one by one.

Yuuri distracts himself with Phichit and Chris and forgets about Viktor until he doesn’t want to anymore, his absence burning in the back of his mind.

○ ◊ ○

One perk of working with chain smokers is that Yuuri knows when they take their smoking breaks. Yuuri opens the door to the storage room, and—

Just as he anticipated, there he is, one arm slung around his torso and a cigarette in the corner of his mouth. Viktor‘s tie is gone and his neat white dress shirt is unbuttoned all the way to his navel, his collarbones sharp and vulnerable, red rope creating triangles and diamonds.

The place between Yuuri´s legs twinges.

The door falls shut behind him, reduces the party outside to a faint background noise.

“Oh _ no _, you know my secret,” Viktor says, breathes it out with smoke, head tilted upwards, a grin so sly even the densest person would understand the sarcasm.

Yuuri moves and he swears the world tilts, exists in the space beneath Viktor‘s collarbone. Viktor‘s gaze turns radioactive, magnetic, everything at once, and before Yuuri really knows what’s happening he loses his fingers in the heated strip of skin between Viktor’s pants and his shirt.

“I take it my article inspired you?” he says, voice hoarse. 

“_Very _ inspired,” Viktor breathes and sways closer like a building about to collapse. “ _ Oh, _ Yuuri, I was inspired to do all kinds of things,” his eyebrows crinkling like baking paper, and it makes the space below Yuuri’s navel twinge sweetly. All his fingers spread over the vulnerable small of VIktor’s back, and he gasps as their bodies meet. Viktor‘s eyes go dark when he feels what an effect he has on Yuuri.

“How long have you been wearing this?” Yuuri asks, his fingers wedging between Viktor‘s heated skin and the red rope, letting it snap back against his cleavage. Viktor‘s chest expands with a shudder so violent Yuuri automatically tightens his grip on Viktor’s waist in support should his knees buckle.

“Since I read your article,” he says, his hand feverish in the back of Yuuri’s neck.

Yuuri breathes out a laugh, his hands moving through the short strands of Viktor‘s hair in the back of his neck and Viktor tips forward a little — and that’s all it takes.

Viktor‘s mouth melts, soft and wet, and he sighs. It’s that sound that makes him crowd Viktor against the wall, intertwining their hands and pressing them against the wall.

Viktor thrusts helplessly against the thigh Yuuri’s pressed between his legs, so wonderfully desperate. He kisses Viktor‘s cheek, once, twice, likes the soft give of his skin, kisses just below his ear and down the slope of his neck. Yuuri softly bites into the straining tendons of his neck, his hand cupping Viktor's face. Viktor breathes shakily, turns his face and sucks on Yuuri’s thumb. A shiver runs down Yuuri’s spine.

The moist velvet of Viktor‘s tongue takes him deeper, dips low as Yuuri presses in. He snakes a hand into the back of Viktor‘s untucked shirt, feels the rope rough under his hands, and hooks a finger under the rope. He pulls.

Viktor sounds strangled and his body tenses. Yuuri thinks of the rope digging into the vulnerable skin of Viktor‘s balls, in the cleft of his ass, thinks of the red marks on his skin when Viktor unravels himself. He thinks of Viktor looking at himself, remembering Yuuri, and he can’t help but touch himself, finger himself open, come all over his stomach, only thinking of Yuuri and— 

Something rolls down his back and into his limbs, and he twitches, feels like he’s heating up from within, gets undone.

When he comes back to himself he breathes into the space of Viktor‘s neck. The heated smell of Viktor‘s skin, his toes curled in his shoes, the uneven breathing, his glasses foggy.

The wet, sticky warmth in his pants.

He pulls back and looks at Viktor in the dark, him in various shades of gray. His eyes are burning through Yuuri from under his disheveled fringe.

“_Wow _,” Viktor breathes, chest rising and falling.

○ ◊ ○

Yuuri’s scrolling through his phone as he realizes that it’s June. Which means, this — _ something _between Viktor and him has been going on for four months. Four whole months are a whole life.

An emerald green tie flutters on Yuuri's chest, the same shade of green as the rope hanging around his neck. He sits down in front of a large mirror to start the process of creating diamonds and triangles.

"I don't want you to go," Yuuri hears himself say and Viktor's head whirls around. His face is little tense but he smooths it out again. "It's the fashion week, I have to go," he says. It almost feels rehearsed.

"I'll be back before you know it."

Yuuri tries and fails to keep his eyes on Viktor's face in the mirror. "Only 5 days of hell," he mutters and immediately curses himself out in his head because fashion has been his entire world for longer than this — _ thing _— between them exists.

Yuuri has no right to take this away from Viktor. He has no right to _ anything _when it comes to Viktor. The change in their relationship happened so slowly it was easy to overlook it, but now, he wonders what name he would give this something between them. He wonders what Viktor would call it.

He carries that wonder all the way to the airport, and it lies like a stone in his stomach. Both of them drift in their own heads, mechanically going through the motions.

Before Viktor gets into the plane, Yuuri doesn’t kiss him. He hugs him and waves goodbye and thinks about it for 3 days. He knows what he needs to do, but he’s scared and giddy because Viktor comes back and Yuuri’s blood is fizzing.

He decides to get a few words down since he’s sure Viktor will not want to work tomorrow.

The elevator dings and Yuuri steps out, walks the short distance to his office, and edits an article. An hour goes by fast, and he smiles. Viktor‘s plane will land soon and he’ll pick him up, and—

The door clacks close. He turns around. Viktor‘s smile is slow and hazy at the edges.

“Your plane lands in an hour,” he says, which is the stupidest thing he could have said when the very first words he wanted to say to Viktor were _ I love you. _

“I’m _ also _ very glad to see you again,” Viktor says.

Viktor‘s trench coat is dust pink, his blouse white and feminine, a large bow in front of his neck like he knows what a gift he is. But his expression doesn’t fit — it doesn’t even have a hint of the exuberance he came to associate Viktor with. He looks so much like the boss Yuuri had met on his first day, and Yuuri hates how it took only a week for him to grow back a new layer of ice Yuuri had so carefully chipped away over months.

“Get over here,” he hears himself say, raspy and thick. Viktor‘s grin sharpens and his eyes darken as he walks around Yuuri's desk. Yuuri turns his seat to face him, leans back against the backrest, and that’s all the invitation Viktor needs to settle his thighs onto Yuuri’s lap. He wants to bite the soft, white inside of Viktor’s thigh.

Viktor crosses his hands behind Yuuri’s neck and leans in — the peppermint coolness from his lip balm makes Yuuri hungry for more. He licks over Viktor‘s bottom lip, Viktor‘s mouth shuddering open like he feels so good he can’t concentrate on kissing, and _ god _ , in just a week he has forgotten _ so much. _

Yuuri presses his hand into the curve of Viktor‘s spine, and right there, underneath the thin silk, he can feel strands of rope. Something hot pinches him below his navel, makes him grab the fabric left and right of Viktor‘s chest and _ tear _. The buttons scatter like coins.

The ropes are pitch black against the pale planes of Viktor‘s body. They run tight around his torso, creating triangles and diamonds from his neck all the way to the place between his thighs. It’s digging into the softness of his chest, his nipples protruding, and Viktor squeals as Yuuri sucks on them, pulls the rope tight until he can feel Viktor tensing, his thighs quivering, sweat at the base of his neck and spine. 

Yuuri runs the back of his finger along Viktor’s cock, and he presses his grin into Viktor’s mouth as he feels Viktor lifting his hips just to rub himself against Yuuri. Like he noticed that he’s wearing way too much clothing, Viktor frantically opens his fly and pulls his pants down his ass, Yuuri’s hands already on him to help.

Viktor‘s cock drools, but Yuuri knows Viktor won’t touch himself. He gets his hands on Viktor‘s balls — his hips pull away before pushing back vigorously, wanting. His mouth is moist next to Yuuri’s ear. Yuuri throbs as he touches the velvet skin on Viktor’s balls, the pink tip of his cock glistening, a pale blue vein running up his length. Yuuri _ aches _for it to mess up his insides.

It’s grating his brain. He doesn’t know if he wants to have Viktor or if he wants to be had by him.

Viktor makes the decision for him as he slips from Yuuri’s lap, kisses a path from Yuuri’s chest to his navel to the spot below.

“God,_ Viktor _,” he gasps as Viktor’s knees hit the floor. Yuuri’s nails sink into the armrest of his chair. Viktor laughs, a hungry, filthy thing. Yuuri hooks his thumb into Viktor’s open mouth to pull him closer. He takes Yuuri’s clothed cock into his mouth and inhales so deep Yuuri flushes bright red. 

Viktor closes his eyes and nuzzles his face in the space where thigh meets groin. Yuuri pulls the rope at the back of his neck, knows how much it pinches against his hole and tightens around his balls and Viktor makes a deep sound in the throat. He looks up, almost drunk like he forgot Yuuri was there at all, as if he forgot Yuuri is a whole person attached to his dick.

He grabs Viktor neck and pulls him in for another kiss and another and—

the door opens. Yuuri yelps as Chris’s eyes go round.

“What an enthusiastic response,” he says, “I missed you too!” He walks into Yuuri’s office like Viktor isn’t on his knees in front of him. Yuuri glances downwards and realizes Viktor is completely concealed under his desk.

“There’s something I wanted to show you — it won’t take long. I wanted to give you feedback on the interview you did,“ he says and hooks up his laptop with the whiteboard.

Yuuri glances down as Chris turns around to connect everything. Viktor‘s hands folded on Yuuri’s balls, the look on his eyes almost pleading, and Yuuri glances one last time to Chris before he slowly undoes his own fly. The second his cock slaps against Viktor‘s soft cheek he swears he pops a vein.

Viktor breathes, and the anticipation, the shameless _ wanting _is almost as good as Viktor drinking him down like water. Yuuri doesn’t know what sound he ends up making, he just knows that it must have sounded painful because Chris whirls around and asks, “Are you okay?”

“Y—yeah, I’m just — migraine you know,” he says and waves his hands frantically.

Chris crinkles his forehead but looks up the video from the interview. Viktor‘s lips return to engulf him in heat, his hand massaging Yuuri’s balls, his throat flexing around each millimeter of Yuuri’s cock as if he wants to burn the shape into his throat and feel him in each breath.

Yuuri wishes Viktor could finger him — he knows he needs it bad right now. But just because he can’t have that now doesn’t mean he can’t do the same to Viktor.

He slides his hand under the rope between Viktor‘s shoulder blades and pulls, and Viktor‘s forehead crinkles. The interview starts. There’s applause as Yuuri gets on stage, wearing crisp clothes that are not his own.

Viktor makes a guttural sound Yuuri can feel vibrating all the way to his spine. Viktor‘s eyes are mindless and blind, and Yuuri makes sure Chris isn’t looking when he grabs the back of Viktor‘s neck and thrusts in deep. Viktor’s hands scramble to pull him closer, trying to get him deeper and deeper. Yuuri can hear the wet squelch, his fingers touching drool on Viktor‘s chin. Viktor looks blissful, like he was_ meant _ to take cock like this.

Yuuri’s foot hits Viktor‘s thigh, and in his surprise Viktor bumps his head on the underside of the desk, making it rattle. Chris throws a, “Bless you_ ,” _ over his shoulder.

Yuuri steps on Viktor‘s cock, feels the hardness of him. Viktor‘s hand is around his ankle like a vice. A thrill rolls down his back as he realizes what an interesting inclination he’s just discovered.

“_God _,” he breathes.

The audience explodes with laughter, but Yuuri doesn’t hear it because Viktor shoves his nose into Yuuri’s pubic hair. Yuuri’s cock rushes down Viktor‘s throat, and Yuuri’s muscles tense, spasming all the way to his feet and against Viktor‘s cock. He feels Viktor’s dick twitching just before his own orgasm makes him unlearn speak.

He’s deaf and blind, the pleasure taking everything with it like a wave.

It’s hard to reconnect his brain to his body, but when he does Chris has already disconnected his laptop and says they’ll talk tomorrow since it looks like Yuuri is_ literally dying. _

It takes a second to think of Viktor under his desk and help him off his knees. He wipes the plush redness of Viktor‘s mouth with a tissue, and even now, still drunk from his orgasm, he wants him.

Yuuri loosens the ropes, grows hungry when Viktor‘s body expands. He puts a Capri sun into Viktor’s hands and throws a blanket around him. Viktor doesn’t say thank you, doesn’t smile, doesn’t acknowledge it. It’s almost a thrill to know that no stiff politeness exists between them. 

Yuuri settles behind Viktor on the small office couch and wraps his arms around him. Viktor sighs and wiggles until he’s comfortable and melts against his chest. It’s easy to switch their roles afterwards, and it’s easy to serve and pamper him.

He kisses Viktor above his ear and breathes in the lovely, expensive smell of his shampoo. He presses his half smile into the warmth of Viktor’s skin, and Viktor laughs out, bell-like, as Yuuri keeps sniffing his hair, the curve of his neck.

He’s so absorbed in it that he doesn’t immediately notice the way Viktor’s body goes rigid under his fingers — but he notices Viktor‘s groaning, how he hides his face in his hands.

“What’s wrong?” Yuuri asks.

Viktor wordlessly hands him his phone.

_ Next time you decide to blow Yuuri under his desk you should make sure your louboutins aren’t visible. Or get ready for me to join in on the fun. _


	2. Number Exchange

Yuuri swears he can feel Nikiforov’s eyes on him in their weekly meetings.

He has that quiet, unsettling intensity about him that seems to irradiate everyone. It keeps everyone at the edge of their seats and wondering if he’s going to nod in appreciation or if he’ll tilt his head and touch his lips with one finger like he’s trying to figure out if whatever he’s been presented with is a joke.

It’s after such a meeting that Nikiforov approaches him. Only Yuuri doesn’t really notice it. He thinks Nikiforov just wants to move past him, so he moves out of the way– only for Nikiforov to pull him back by the crook of his arm.

Yuuri looks at Nikiforov’s hand and then into his a little too close face. The word _gentle_ floats in his mind like an old windows screensaver.

It’s like a western where two cowboys wait for the other to make the first move – but instead of disinterested horses there are a bunch of  _very _ interested coworkers witnessing this scene.

Nikiforov seems to notice it the same moment he does, because he turns his face towards the spectators and makes them scatter, his gaze a laser.

“Yuuri,” Nikiforov says, but he doesn’t really say it because he says it like Yurrri, and he doesn’t know if he’s more surprised that his boss actually _knows_ and _used_ his first name or that he pronounces it with such a strong accent.

“Could you give me your number?” he asks, and then shoves the words, “I have everyone’s number,” like an afterthought behind them, almost hastingly in Nikiforov's terms who does everything leisurely.

“Sure,” is what he ends up saying which is something he’ll later regret terribly without really knowing why, it just feels like he could have said a little more than this– but Nikiforov hands him his phone, and Yuuri’s neck is feverish as he types in the digits. 

He hands it back to him, but Nikiforov stares at him. He raises his pale eyebrows, holds out his hand, all fairy tale pretty, and Yuuri takes so long to understand that he creaks out  _sorry, sorry_ at least one thousand times.

He wants to hand Nikiforov his phone so he can type in his number– but instead Nikiforov pulls Yuuri’s entire hand that still holds the phone closer, his cool hand over Yuuri’s, and he’s sure Nikiforov judges his cracked screen or the fact that Yuuri bites his nails– 

“Done,” Nikiforov says and leaves the hint of a smile in the room as he leaves, along with the name Viktor and his number.

Just like that, they’re on a first name basis. But it takes a week for Yuuri to stop thinking about the way he rolls the r’s in his name, and another week for Yuuri to stop blushing when he says “Viktor.”

He uses Viktor’s number earlier than he would have liked after misplacing an important note. Okay, actually it was Phichit who dialed his number because Yuuri had already bitten his lip bloody and Phichit couldn’t stand seeing him like this.

The call had lasted 2 minutes and 8 seconds, and more than half of it Yuuri was stammering his way through his sentences like he had lost each and every one of his painstakely studied vocabularies. But it’s seems like those 2 minutes and 8 seconds were enough for Viktor to change the way he walks past Yuuri’s office. 

Instead of a dismissive good morning thrown into each room on his way to his office, careless and polite, his hand now lingers on Yuuri’s door frame for a second and he looks directly in Yuuri’s eyes like he’s taking time for this.

And just like that Nikiforov’s coldness that seemed like a given, melts away until it fits in the short time frame of meetings, fueled by his habit to stare. 

Now, Viktor clicks his tongue and crosses his arms over his chest at the mugs collecting in Yuuri’s office, but he does it so playfully that Yuuri’s ears burn when he does the dishes. He falls into daydreams where Viktor treats him a little differently, where he might even be  _ flirting  _ with Yuuri.

But he sees how Viktor doesn't even flinch when Chris' hands wrap around his waist, or how Viktor talks to Mila and Georgi in Russian, his features relaxed. Sometimes it feels like there’s more than a wall separating him from Viktor.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Yes, I did it. Sort of. I promised to post the deleted scenes and while going through my writing docs I hated myself which isn't unusual but yeah. There are other scenes, but I thought I would split them so that there would be less pressure to edit a long document. I'm so fucking nervous what the hellllll


	3. Every unsightly thing

Chris ends up sending him his ideas and research. When Yuuri opens up the file determination makes him calm as he skims over the bullet points — just to leave him as quickly as it came because  _ how  _ is he supposed to put these things in an article thousands of people are going to read?

_ I can’t do it, I’m sorry _ , he texts Viktor and buries his phone under his pillow. The vibration from Viktor’s bombardment of messages becomes so penetrating that he picks it up again when Viktor calls.

He’s already talking before Yuuri’s ear is even close to his phone, talks about he knows Yuuri can do it, how it’s good practice for him and how this is why Yuuri even went to college–

The more Yuuri listens the more he wants to peel of his skin and never talk to anyone ever again and fall into a coma for like 2 years, so he repeats “no I can’t, I can’t,” and “I’m so sorry Viktor,” and “this is all my fault,” and his nose is running and  _ oh fuck _ he’s crying, fuck,  _ fuck– _

Viktor says “Yuuri, you need to breathe,” and when this doesn’t work he says, “I’m on my way,” and hangs up. 

Yuuri stares at the screen. 

When it goes black he scrambles out of his bed and almost trips because of the blanket tangled around his legs. He looks at his room from the view of a normal, functioning adult and  _ ugh _ , his room is a  _ mess _ .

He doesn't even know where he should start to clean — so he sprints into the living room which thankfully looks better. Yuuri briefly wonders if it would have been better if Phichit had been here, but by the thought of him meeting Viktor, his best friend who knows each and every facet of his sad excuse of a personality, he should be thankful that it’s Phichit’s Pilates day.

Viktor rings the doorbell like someone is chasing after him just as Yuuri shoves all the dirty dishes in the kitchen cabinet.

He presses the button to let Viktor in, feels the vein on his neck pump against the collar of his sweater. He opens the door just as Viktor climbs the last of the stairs. His face is a little red and he’s out of breath — which isn’t really an unusual appearance for their visitors since they’re living in the eighth floor, and they don’t have an elevator.

The moment Viktor stands in front of him with his long white coat, his polished shoes, so well put together like he walked straight out of a barbie doll factory, Yuuri can’t help but notice how terribly out of place he looks. All his plastic perfectness next to the chipped paint of the metal staircase, the old yellow light bulbs, and his heart grows heavy like it’s soaking in water.

“Are you okay?” Viktor asks, suddenly very close and so much taller than the person who he is at work, or maybe Yuuri just feels smaller compared to him, Yuuri with the tiny holes in his socks and the stain on his sweater. It should be the other way around, he thinks, seeing Viktor after work in his own home, cheeks flushed from exertion, should put a light bulb of “hey, Viktor Nikiforov is a human who sometimes blushes and visits people and worries” but it doesn't. At work, they seem equal in their excitement and frustration. Equal when Viktor winks at him in meetings, all secretive.

Here, Yuuri is nobody but an adult with every unsightly thing shoved under his single bed. An imposter adult visited by someone who sometimes is also just an imposter adult.

Yuuri must have nodded because Viktor’s face relaxes a little and he bends down to take his shoes off and place them neatly next to Phichit’s beat up chucks and Yuuri thinks  _ god I love this _ like it’s not a dangerous thought at all.

Approximately 15 minutes later Yuuri’s sitting on the couch while his laptop creates white rectangles in Viktor’s eyes as he skims through Chris’ research. Viktor sits on the floor, and from this angle he can see the vulnerable top his head. He likes how his hair is cut short at the base of his neck. Yuuri can almost feel the satisfying crunch of soft stubble under his fingertips.

“Okay,” Viktor says, a lot louder than Yuuri's creepy thoughts and thus snapping him out of them, “it says that the transfer of power and control is the most important thing, so I guess we’re lucky that we’re, well, us,” he says and gets up. His joints crack, and a pang of sympathy shots straight through his heart.

Then, Viktor unbuckles the thick black belt around his waist, and that sound is so deeply connected to the moments Yuuri gets himself off that his immediate reaction is to blush up to the roots of his hair and hold onto the thin, thin wrists of Viktor.

“What are you doing?” he asks, sandpaper in his mouth. Viktor does that super subtle puppy head tilt thing before his voice gets suddenly serious.

“You know you can say no to this, right?” Viktor asks and Yuuri’s voice is surprisingly firm when he replies “I know.” 

The corner of Viktor’s mouth twitches.

“Then… I would say we’re trying to inspire you a little, to get you in the right writing mood,” he explains and smiles too wide and Yuuri wonders if he has done this with anyone else. 

“But why?”, Yuuri asks and winces at his own voice.

“I’m your boss, so I have a certain amount of power over you, right?” Yuuri nods, “So if shibari is about the transfer of power that means that you should have the power now, right?”

Yuuri can’t really argue that logic, and that indecisiveness makes him tie Viktor’s hands behind his back with his black leather belt.

“Well? Do you like it?” he asks, almost coy as he looks over his shoulder and it’s obviously a trick question that’s made to make Yuuri blush and stammer, meant to release the tension Yuuri created with his silence. But Yuuri feels completely calm.

“Yes,” he says, and catches Viktor’s eyes over his shoulder, sees them get almost comically bigger “I like this very much,” he says, throat hoarse and warm. He’s never heard his voice go low like that and he wonders if Viktor ever made another man sound like that.

“Does it hurt?” he asks and wedges a finger between the pale skin of Viktor’s wrists and the leather.

“A little,“ he says, soft. Yuuri throbs so violently with want he‘s sure Viktor knows.

He moves a little closer, unable to look away from Viktor’s thighs. The image of the way rope would cut into the thickness of his thighs is vivid like a memory. Yuuri almost wishes Viktor would be a little thicker, so that he could see his skin yielding under the pressure, leave a red mark on his skin–

“That’s it,” he breathes, and watches a shudder roll of Viktor’s shoulders all the way to the base of his spine. “Shibari is about… vulnerability, submission,” he says and loosens the belt.

Viktor turns around and faces him, his eyes downcast as he rubs his wrists — which Yuuri promptly does for him instead. It feels like it's his responsibility after Viktor did this with him. And maybe some greedy, dark part of him wants to exploit that moment a little longer until they're both just Yuuri and Viktor Nikiforov again.

For just a moment, it seemed like Viktor would have let him do anything he wanted.

“I’m glad you’re okay now,” Viktor sighs and wraps his arms around him. It’s unexpected. He was an awkward child, and physical contact always made him realize just how awkward he was. But he doesn’t mind this. Maybe because Viktor hugs like a person who doesn’t hug others a lot — too long limbs and too little experience on what to do with them.

He allows himself to take a deep breath and puts his hand in the space between Viktor’s shoulder blades — Viktor smells floral and expensive but not artificial, and he likes the way he feels their hearts syncing up to a crescendo.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I feel like I actually like this... am i getting better or are my expectations lowering?? Both would be great

**Author's Note:**

> It's been 3927 years since I last posted anything... my therapist wouldn't be happy about me not spending time on my hobbies  
The only thing I remember about writing this was the immense pressure I felt since this was my very first zine, and honestly, it's so much more fun than I thought! Everyone was lovely and I hope I get to participate in another zine someday. I was way too motivated and wrote 13k so there are tons of unused scenes and stuff. I'm thinking about posting them one day, if anyone even wants to see that
> 
> Thank you so much for reading!


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